


A Matter of Time, Really

by FracturedSpine



Category: The Green Mile (1999)
Genre: Stephen King - Freeform, The Green Mile book, kinda sad, spooky ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FracturedSpine/pseuds/FracturedSpine
Summary: Now at Georgia Pines retirement home, Paul Edgecombe is visited by someone he knew to be long dead - Percy Wetmore.Based more on the book than the film
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

When Paul Edgecombe woke up, the first sickly yellow rays of light had begun to fill his room.   
Wincing at the bright light, he slowly and cautiously sat himself up.   
He had fallen asleep whilst writing again.   
He leaned back in his chair, his spine and shoulders popping as he attempted to regain circulation in his body. By his bed sat a once white, but now faded plastic alarm clock. It’s neon green little hands proudly displaying the time, a colour Paul no longer had any stomach for.   
It was just past four a.m.   
He rose to his feet, careful not to disturb his papers and ventured out into the corridor to the bathroom.   
He had not bothered to close his door, instead keeping it open in an attempt to replenish the stale air. 

When he returned, he knew something was off.   
The door had shifted, opened slightly, to allow someone entry.   
Swallowing, he entered his room, ready to confront the trespasser, but as he did so, he felt the temperature drop. It had fallen perhaps only by a few degrees or so, but Paul felt it all the same.   
At first he thought it was Brad Dolan sneaking in before the early morning shift change. But as he glanced down at his papers, he found them unmoved.   
Slowly, his eyes skirted around the room, finding no living being, except for himself. Nothing had moved, nothing had changed. He even looked out of the window, finding Brad’s beaten Chevrolet absent from the parking lot.   
And then Paul realised.  
He smiled at himself for being stupid. The door shifting, the temperature drop, it was nothing more than a simple draft.  
But as he looked down at the window, he found it firmly latched.   
Yet, he continued to chastise himself. It was nothing more than a draft. He was simply spooked from his writing.  
That was all. 

But behind him, he felt something shift. The lighting of the room had changed, as if someone was stood in the doorway, obscuring the weak glow that came from the permanent corridor lights.   
Paul turned around.

It was Percy Wetmore.  
Of that, he was sure.   
He looked just like he had after they had pulled him out of the restraint room, that warm October evening of 1932.   
His hair was disheveled and his face was shiny from the perspiration that coated it.   
He had his thumbs hooked through his belt loops.  
The holsters that held his pistol and beloved hickory stick were empty.  
He had never picked those up. 

_“Look at you! All grown up!”_

Paul flinched and Percy smiled.   
For a moment he stood there frozen, listening to himself as he breathed. In and out. In and out.   
This was not real.  
He was hallucinating.  
Percy Wetmore was dead. He had been for thirty one years. The son of a bitch had outlived, both Brutal and Dean. It had been Harry Terwillinger who had sent him a clipping of the obituary.   
But yet here he stood, clear as day, like another one of God’s Great Miracles.   
“This is a dream.” Paul uttered, his voice sounding weak to his ears. 

_“Why, that’s about the dumbest thing you ever did say.”_

He spoke with that boyish excitement that Paul ever so resented.   
Paul shifted away from the being in front of him, half stumbling over the chest of drawers behind him.   
Percy laughed.  
It was the same laugh he had used when he had accidentally tripped Delacroix. Foolish, but yet laced with something darker.   
“Why are you here?” Paul uttered, clinging to the furniture behind him for support.   
He wanted to look away. He knew there was no way that that man was here. Really here. He felt as if he was humouring some awful nightmare, but Paul could not avert his gaze. Because deep down, he knew. He knew that like John Coffey had healed him, had healed Melinda Moores, had saved Mr Jingles, one of God’s Miracles could be used to bring Percy Wetmore back to the plains of Earth.   
And he was scared.  
Perhaps if he was younger, Paul wouldn’t have been. But now he was old and frail. He would have no chance against the twenty one year old stood before him if Percy decided he wanted to take revenge.   
And Percy had been dead since ‘65 and brain dead since ‘32.   
He had had an awfully long time to do some thinking. 

_“You know, I’ve been watching you, Paul.”_

Percy shifted then, the smile on his face widening. It was not a happy smile, but then Paul could not think of a time when he had seen Percy happy, truly happy.   
Instead he looked mad, as if he was about to confess to some heinous crime.

_“I know where you keep Mr Jingles.”_

And suddenly Paul could truly believe that it was Percy Wetmore stood before. That he had travelled from whatever astral plains of the afterlife there was, just to kill that damned mouse. A smile crept across Paul’s face at the thought of it and he was forced to stifle a laugh. Yet Percy noticed it all the same. He watched as the boy’s face blushed red before the morbid smile returned. Paul bit his tongue, no doubt Percy had thought of something in that twisted mind of his. 

_“You know, you must get awfully lonely. Everyone you cared for is gone.”_

Paul broke his gaze and it was clear that Percy had touched a nerve. He found himself looking at the carpeted floor.   
He was thankful that it wasn’t green. 

_“Dean, Bill, Harry, all up there in Heaven. So’s your wife, Janice. O’course her spine was broken and she had glass in her eye, but they fixed her up real nice.”_

“Shut up, Percy!”  
Paul had straightened himself. No longer using the chest of drawers for support. It was now adrenaline and hatred for the man in front of him that was fuelling him. 

_“You’ve got no John Coffey to help you now.”_

Percy lunged at him then, much like Paul had done after the boy had done something foolish, and shoved him against the wall. He had his right forearm under Paul’s neck, pinning him there. Percy couldn’t have been much taller than five foot six, but whilst he was held there, almost nose to nose, he felt much much taller. Had Paul been some sixty years younger, he doubted he would have felt the same. 

Percy pushed harder against his neck and Paul began to fear for his life.   
He wondered if Percy Wetmore, the cowardly moron that he knew him to be, had it in him. To take the life of another human being.   
The fear must have touched his eyes because Percy smirked and then all of a sudden, he let go.   
Paul gathered his breath in deep gasps, not watching as Percy took a few steps backwards, as if to marvel at his handiwork. 

“Paul. Are you alright?”

The voice had come from the corridor.  
It was a voice he recognised and right now deeply welcomed.   
He heard the rasp of knuckles against his door that was still held ajar, before in walked Elaine. She was dressed in a white night shift, which in Paul’s bleary vision made her look like a ghostly spectre, or perhaps more fittingly, a guardian angel.   
“Paul. I heard a commotion. What happened?”  
She rushed over to him, wincing from her arthritis. Paul had his hands splayed against the wall, his breathing uneven more from shock than injury.   
Gently, she took his hand and Paul met her gaze. Immediately, she could tell that something awful must have happened.   
“Paul?” Elaine whispered, worry in her voice.   
But Paul did not answer, instead he began to look frantically around the room.   
“Percy…” Paul began, only there was no Percy Wetmore to be found.   
Paul pushed himself away from the wall, staggering a few steps until he was stood in the centre of the room.   
“I must have had a bad dream, Elli.” He held his head in his hands, not wanting to look at her. Not wanting her to see him like this.   
“Do you want to talk about it?”  
He shook his head.   
“I’ll be alright.” He uttered, shifting away from her, as if embarrassed.  
Eli nodded wordlessly, she could tell how he felt.   
She reached for the door  
“I’ll bring you some tea.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was beginning to rain when Paul took Elli to see the shed located at the far reaches of the Georgia Pines grounds.  
The walk had taken longer than Paul would have liked and he couldn’t help but constantly glance over his shoulder, expecting to see Brad Dolan watching them.  
But he never did see him.  
When Elli first saw the shed she frowned and suddenly grasped Paul’s hand, pulling him away from the rotting wooden building.  
“Oh, Paul. Is it safe?”  
He smiled at her, attempting not to laugh.  
“I’m sure it is. Just watch your step.”  
Paul opened the door, it’s rusted hinges groaning. He held out his hand and helped Elli into the building. He watched as she surveyed her surroundings.  
It seemed unimportant to her. An ordinary garden shed.  
It was rotten, the air stank of mould and rotting vegetation. In the corners were long abandoned gardening equipment, all of the metal tarnished to a reddish brown. Above her, in every corner, were cobwebs, filled with the corpses of insects that could have easily been decades old.  
She couldn’t see why Paul desired to visit such a place.  
Slowly, Paul crouched to his knees. Before him was an old weathered cigar box, that sat ominously in the centre of the floor.  
The brand was long since defunct.  
Paul opened it.  
Even in the grey winter light, Elli could immediately tell what was inside.  
“Is that…” She began, before realising of how absurd a question she was about to ask.  
Paul held what had been inside in his hands and turned around to show her.  
“Mr Jingles.” Paul smiled.  
The mouse was no longer brown, instead it’s coat had turned grey with age.  
Gently, Paul placed the mouse on the shed floor and fished an old cotton spool from his pocket. He showed it to the mouse before throwing it, not far, perhaps only twenty centimeters.  
The mouse chased after it.  
Mr Jingles was not as lively as he had been, and the limp that Paul had seen after John Coffey had healed him had returned.  
As it reached the spool, the mouse rose to its hind legs and slowly began to push it back to Paul.  
Elli watched in both amazement and shock.  
“But how, Paul?”  
“John Coffey. He gave him life.” That was Paul’s answer, because truthfully, he didn’t know how. He didn’t know what exactly John Coffey had done to Mr Jingles, and to him, that had helped them far exceed their life expectancy.  
He bent down and picked up Mr Jingles before placing him on an upturned bucket beside him and Elli.  
For a moment they said nothing, just watching the mouse that should not be. 

“Well, well, well. What have we got here?”

Paul felt his heart sink.  
He had been followed. He knew this would happen.  
In the doorway stood Brad Dolan, his face flushed as if he had just run the entire distance from the home to the shed.  
Elli immediately stiffened. She grabbed Paul’s hand and held it.  
“Don’t you dare hurt him.”  
Paul had spoke those words before he truly understood what he had said.  
Those words were never intended for Brad Dolan, but he had directed them at him nevertheless.  
But Elli knew what they meant. She stood in front of the bucket where Mr Jingles was stood, obscuring the mouse from view.  
But Brad had seen him anyway.  
“A mouse?” Brad smiled, glancing from Paul to Elli to Paul again. “It doesn’t matter anyway. The family pet is dead.”  
He thought it had been one of Brad’s sick jokes, but as he looked down at the upturned bucket where he had placed Mr Jingles, he realised that Brad had told the truth.  
There lay Mr Jingles, flat and splayed out like a starfish.  
And suddenly Paul felt as if he wanted to scream. 

_“I knew I’d get him sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time, really.”_

There in the corner of his eye, hovered Percy Wetmore.  
He wore that same stupid expression of false innocence like he had when he had first killed Mr Jingles back in 1932.  
Paul looked away. He couldn’t bear the sight of him.  
Instead he looked at Elaine and he realised he had tears in his eyes.  
His expression must have alarmed her, because all of a sudden she lashed out at Brad.  
She screamed at him and he could see the boy flinch.  
What exactly she said, Paul never heard.  
Instead he picked up the body of Mr Jingles and returned it to the cigar box.  
He held the box tightly in his hands, almost cradling it.  
Elli turned to him, gasping his arms.  
She was shaking.  
Paul looked up at the doorway.  
Brad had gone.  
“Would you help me bury an old friend?”  
She nodded, before hugging him tightly.  
Tears threatened to spill from both of their eyes.  
Elli wiped her face with her sleeve. 

Paul never saw Percy Wetmore again.


End file.
